


Thread the Needle Through

by kristophine



Category: Longmire (TV)
Genre: Background Het, M/M, OT3, Public indecency
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-08-13 06:43:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7966558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kristophine/pseuds/kristophine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The summer air that night was close, a little stifling. Walt shifted on the seat of his truck; he was too hot everywhere he was touching the leather. The road stretching in front of him gave way to gravel as he turned off onto the old spur that bordered the McGinty place.</p><p>“Some fuckin’ truck,” the rancher had growled on the phone. “God knows what they’re here for. Probably smoking some goddamned dope. Get them the hell off my land.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thread the Needle Through

**Author's Note:**

> saathi1013 dragged me kicking and screaming into this fandom, and then had the courtesy to beta this fic, so THANK YOU AND ALSO HOW DARE YOU.

The summer air that night was close, a little stifling. Walt shifted on the seat of his truck; he was too hot everywhere he was touching the leather. The road stretching in front of him gave way to gravel as he turned off onto the old spur that bordered the McGinty place. 

“Some fuckin’ truck,” the rancher had growled on the phone. “God knows what they’re here for. Probably smoking some goddamned dope. Get them the hell off my land.”

Walt had dutifully logged the call, then turned around and gotten back into his truck. At thirty-five, he was getting too old for this, the late nights with Martha and Cady at home waiting for him, but Lucian was clinging stubbornly to his job and Walt wasn’t going to be the one to tell him that he needed to knock it off. 

A stray branch across the road made the truck jump. Walt wiped some of the sweat beading up on his forehead with the back of his hand, shook his fingers out where they were getting stiff on the wheel. His shirt had started wilting from the prickling sweat on his neck hours ago. Didn’t matter how much Martha starched it, the points of the collar fell by noon every day in this heat. 

He had the radio off; no sense getting lost in the music when he had work to do. Besides, who knew how good the trespassers’ hearing would be. He switched off his headlights as he came to the rise. You could see most of the McGinty property from here. 

Sure enough, a few hundred yards away, Walt spotted the telltale glint of moonlight off shiny chrome when he crested the hill, right where McGinty had said it would be. The reflection came from a truck at the edge of a copse of trees,  black, maybe, or navy. Wouldn’t have shown up at all if it had been moonless. No wonder whatever kids were driving figured they’d have some privacy; nobody but McGinty was sharp enough to notice and crazy enough to care. Walt made his way to the back of the trees and parked, hauled himself out, one foot on the wheel well, one foot dropping to the ground. 

He moved silently around the border of the trees, tall bunchgrass brushing his feet, his knees. He’d be covered in burrs, and maybe this was more than he needed to do; the Sheriff’s department truck barreling up on them in the darkness would keep most kids from coming back—they’d split in a hurry and he wouldn’t have to write them up. Keep it simple. But the other ranchers in the area might go for their guns faster than McGinty, and it would be good to scare them out of doing this again. 

Except, as he got closer to the truck—close  _ enough _ —he saw a set of things at once. They registered simultaneously, a block of impressions:

  1. The truck in the moonlight was familiar; he knew that shape, he knew the lovingly cleaned and polished lines like he knew the back of his hand. He had not recognized it at a distance, half-hidden in the dark, but it was unquestionably Henry’s truck. 
  2. The sounds were also familiar: there was the wet ragged sound of flesh on flesh, and hitching gasps. He had responded to more than enough public indecency complaints in his life to have expected another tonight, or perhaps some idiot kids with a joint or stolen cigarettes or booze, but no. 
  3. He knew, or thought he knew, the shape of the woman’s back he could see, even from his vantage point by the treeline. He didn’t need to know it; he could guess, from knowing that Henry was sweet on Deena Many Camps, from knowing that Henry had been buying little gifts for her lately, bringing them by the café where she was working, the way Henry’s mouth quirked when Jim Miller teased him about her. 



(Walt didn’t tease Henry; Walt didn’t bring her up. Henry knew Walt didn’t like Deena. Didn’t trust her. She was too flashy, too full of mischief. She’d whisper in Henry’s ear  _ let’s go do something stupid _ and Henry would listen, Walt knew he would, something stupid like drive out to the swimming hole on the McGinty property on a night with a near-full moon and take off all their clothes and, and—)

Walt stood there, stopped at the edge of the trees like he’d walked into a wall, watching Deena’s back undulating, silhouetted by the open chasm of the doorframe; her pert ass moving, above a man’s long legs braced on the running board. 

He was closer than he’d thought he would be. Close enough to see the long curling waves of her hair pouring down her back, moving slick and smooth as a river in the low glittering light. And he wasn’t—he wasn’t moving forward on  _ purpose, _ but he found he’d taken a few noiseless steps closer, one foot and then the other. Until he was—until he could see, over her shoulder. 

Henry’s eyes were closed and his lips were parted, shining. Henry’s face was contorting in something that would rightly be described as  _ ecstasy. _ The conclusions were obvious: this was a  _ bad time;  _ Walt should go. He should turn around. He should go. He should not be standing here, staring at Henry’s face flickering in and out of the clinging, filmy shadows as Henry rocked up, undoubtedly rocking  _ into _ Deena from the way she kept tossing her head back and mewling softly with indisputably genuine pleasure. A short spasmodic movement drew Walt’s eyes down to Deena’s ass, and there were Henry’s hands, fingers digging into her flesh, into her soft round ass-cheeks, tightening and easing in turns as she ground down onto him, giving as good as she got. 

They were a beautiful couple. Both beautiful, in the moonlight—and it was time for Walt to go. He’d go back and say,  _ gone by the time I got there _ and it would be almost true, close enough to true. 

Henry’s eyes snapped open. 

Henry had always had exceptional hearing. It was half of what made him such a damn fine tracker. Walt should not have been surprised. He was not, fundamentally, surprised. Henry had probably not heard Walt’s truck or initial approach, but that last ten feet—that had probably percolated through the haze of lust and the friction of skin on skin. 

Well, at least this solved the problem of when they’d leave. There’d be a moment of awkward scrambling and Walt would turn around in embarrassment as they grabbed for their discarded clothes and they’d tear off in the truck with few, if any, words. 

Walt stared at Henry; Henry stared at Walt. 

Henry—Henry didn’t  _ stop. _

He stared into Walt’s eyes and thrust sharply up into Deena. Her head lolled on her shoulders and she cried out softly, twisting her hips down, taking him. Henry’s fingers dug into her skin harder—he’d leave bruises, Walt had never, never held onto Martha like  _ that, _ but Deena seemed to like it, groaning low in her throat—and Henry’s eyes never left Walt’s. 

Walt couldn’t swallow, mouth bone-dry, rock-hard in his pants. 

Henry just kept moving, just kept  _ thrusting, _ naked chest, shoulders, moving in the moonlight, into and out of shadow, and it was ludicrously obscene and Walt’s face was on fire and his hands hung at his sides, empty and useless, and he realized belatedly that he was clenching his fists, clenching and relaxing them in time with Henry’s thrusts. 

Henry slid his own hand up Deena’s back, mapping her skin. She moaned, leaning back into it. He ran his fingers up into her hair, took a handful of it near the scalp and pulled, gently, achingly slowly, tipping her head back--keeping her face still turned away from Walt. Her moan went guttural and dark. She liked that, too, apparently. 

And still Henry wouldn’t look away; wouldn’t let Walt’s gaze slip free. Walt’s mouth was open, air rushing in and out soundlessly as he struggled to breathe. 

Into the night Henry whispered—soft, but Walt could hear it clear as a bell—“yes,  _ yes, _ like that”—and Deena gasped and choked and ground down one more time and came, bucking, whole body spasming around Henry. And as she came, Henry’s eyelids went heavy, finally fell shut. 

Walt stumbled back, turned and ran. Didn’t look back.

 

When he got back to the station, he was still—there were still pictures flashing behind his eyelids every time he blinked, images so distracting he could barely keep the truck on the road. He didn’t even notice the light under the door when he arrived. 

Lucian was sitting in his office, door open, desk lamp on. He looked up sharply as Walt walked in. 

“Well?” Lucian asked abruptly. 

“Uh, what? Sir?” asked Walt, hoping he didn’t sound as gobsmacked as he felt. 

“Any kids smoking dope on McGinty’s land?”

“Uh. Oh. No, sir.”

Lucian’s eyes narrowed. “Then what  _ was _ it, Deputy? Couple of lovebirds?”

_ Lovebirds— _ Walt managed to get out, “Not sure, sir. Gone by the time I got there. Tracks by some trees, don’t doubt they were there, but gone.”

“You sure about that?” 

“Sir?”

Lucian looked unimpressed and deeply skeptical. “Heard it was a  _ dark truck. _ Friend of yours off the Rez who’s been going around with that pain in the ass girl has got one of those. You wouldn’t let him off for old times’ sake?”

“Wouldn’t—no. No, sir,” said Walt, through what felt like a mouth of molten lead. 

Lucian grunted. “Fine. Write it up.”

Which was a minor punishment in and of itself, suggested Lucian didn’t trust Walt, but that was the least of his concerns at that moment. 

 

By the time Walt made it home, Martha was fast asleep, wearing her thin white nightgown, and he took a moment just to look at her in the moonlight still slanting through the window: the lustrous glow of her hair, soft smooth skin, rise and fall of her breasts as she breathed.

He took off his clothes slowly and climbed into bed next to her as carefully as he could, trying not to wake her. He succeeded. 

He didn’t sleep. 

 

The next night he found himself driving slowly by the McGinty property, but there were no further complaints and there was no truck. 

 

Walt got called out to the Red Pony to break up a fight three nights later. 

It wasn’t unusual to go days without talking to Henry. He’d tried not to think about it, tried to bury it somewhere in his brain, drown it in a dark river. Let it blur and fade like a dream. 

By the time Walt arrived, to a thin Thursday night crowd, the fight was over. The truckers (boots with unworn soles, too-clean shirts, dark circles under their eyes) were separated and staring at each sullenly from different tables over bags of frozen peas, their friends sitting with stiffly folded arms. When he looked up from them he spotted Henry, and it was like the shock of icy creek water crashing over him. 

Henry smiled, and it didn’t reach his eyes. “Well, Deputy,” he said, “I think you can guess which of my patrons were involved in the— _ incident _ —tonight.”

“Yeah,” Walt managed around a mouth that had gone cotton-dry all over again. He shook his head like a dog shaking off water and caught a glimpse of a short smirk from Henry before he hooked a chair with the toe of his boot and sat down to get statements. 

When Walt left, he and Henry didn’t talk; Henry just lifted a glass he was polishing up with a rag in a silent salute. Walt nodded slowly back. 

 

Walt  _ knew _ Henry’s truck. It was his baby, his pride and joy, and ever since he’d gotten it and fixed it up they’d gone on more rides than Walt could count in it. He knew every wheeze and creak the engine would make, the loud sharp noises of gravel rattling up and off it, how to push the touchy side view mirrors until they lined up. 

So he knew that tan leather upholstery. He knew the bench seat. Knew how long it was, or wasn’t—not long enough for Deena or Henry to comfortably lie flat on, which must have been why they’d—knew that the bed of the truck would be more than long enough for, for anyone—why hadn’t they—but when the moments caught and rewound and replayed in his brain, he could still see the gauzy drape of Deena’s shirt over the steering wheel; consistent with them being too hot for it, too hot to wait, to climb out and get into the truck bed, where they could have laid down, taken their time, where someone taller than Henry could comfortably lie flat, if Henry wanted to lie down, if Henry wanted to, to—

Walt’s brain chewed it over like it was a case. It wasn’t a case. But he couldn’t stop, tallying it up, working it out in his head, how had it worked, how it must have gone, to lead to that moment, that moment when Henry’s eyes had opened and met Walt’s, and they’d been nearly black in the darkness, but the moonlight off the whites of his eyes had told Walt exactly where he was looking, and Walt hadn’t been able to stop looking back. 

And a lawman asked why. A lawman always asked why, even if it was a bad idea. 

There were always reasons. For every stupid, self-destructive thing any human ever did, there were reasons. 

Look at Achilles, after all; look at what could drive a man to drag an enemy’s corpse in the dirt, knowing the world would catch on fire for what he’d done. 

 

Martha was in the middle of a story about Cady’s day at school when she stopped, cocking her head to one side, eyes curious, without judgment. 

“Are you listening, honey?” she said. “Seems like your mind’s on something.”

He shook his head, managed to smile at her. “Just thinking,” he said. “I’m listening, I promise.”

So he worked harder to listen. What kind of man broke a promise to his wife?

 

But Martha knew him better than anyone, after all, and she was smart—such a smart woman, it was half of what he loved about her, he’d always loved how she could look at him and  _ know _ him, know him right through, know his secrets. She’d have made a hell of a deputy if she’d wanted to. 

“Haven’t seen Henry lately,” she said as they did the dishes, Cady tucked into bed down the hall, Martha’s hip pressed to his in the soft, comfortable silence of the kitchen. 

His hands faltered on the towel he was drying with. “Uh,” he said. 

She raised her eyebrows at him. He gave up. 

“Had a—a strange night the other night.”

“Not a fight?”

“Not a fight.”

“Tell me about it.”

So he did; he always would. Martha was more than smart. Martha would know. Martha would know what the right thing to do would be.

She listened. He tried to tell her everything. Some things he couldn’t. He choked on the words. But he persevered. Martha had always been the only person who’d believed that the words were there, in his head, and just wouldn’t come out, and she’d always had a gift for seeing the shapes of them through his tense silences and blunt, awkward sentences. 

She listened to the end, hand circling absently on the plate she was washing. He was staring at it fixedly, the border of pale blue and pink flowers around the edge, as the soapy sponge sluiced through the water again and again. 

Finally, after a silence that felt like it stretched on for hours, she said, “Well, I think you know what it means.”

He shook his head faintly. 

“Stop. Walt. You can’t go around feeling guilty for every single thing you feel.”

He opened his mouth to deny it and then shut it again. 

“You know I—” She sighed heavily. “I always thought maybe it was like that, with you two.”

Walt felt like a statue, lips numb, fingers nerveless on the bowl he was clutching. He wanted to say  _ it never was _ but Martha could spot a lie from a mile away, even if it was only half-lie, even if it only counted for the unspoken parts. 

“I figured you’d tell me if it was ever my business.” She bent her head back down, to look at the plate she was still needlessly washing. “Are you telling me now because it’s my business?” she asked, voice low but iron-hard in the warm evening. 

“Why—” he got out, but choked on it, couldn’t finish. 

“If you’re wanting permission,” she said slowly, “I don’t know as I can give it.”

“No. No. I’m not—”

“I think even if I did,” she said, “you wouldn’t give it to yourself.”

He nodded, jerkily. There were vows they’d made. And vows meant something.  _ Forsaking all others. _ You didn’t stand up before God and  _ say _ that if you didn’t  _ mean  _ it, and he’d meant it. Would always mean it. 

“I’ll think on it,” she finally said, after a few long moments. He felt a rush of gratitude to her, profound and deep. 

There was nothing he couldn’t say to Martha. And she was a wise woman, and a kind one, and sooner or later she would bring him an argument or a thought wrapped up like a picnic basket, and they’d pull back the edges of the cloth and work through it, one piece at a time. 

 

The next day Walt drove past Henry on his way in to the station. Walt smiled and waved from his truck, and Henry waved back, something like a suggestion of a smile on his face, too. 

 

A few nights later, Martha sat down on the edge of their bed in her nightgown and said, “I thought it out.”

“Yeah?” he said. He didn’t need to ask what. 

“You can have him,” she said. Matter of fact, plainly. 

“Wh—what?”

She shrugged. “It’s Henry,” she said, as if that explained everything. 

From the look on his face she must have guessed that it didn’t, and she sighed, looking down at her hands where she’d clasped them lightly in her lap. 

“One of us will die first,” she said. She said it like it was nothing, instead of the nightmare he tried to keep buried. “If it’s me, he’ll take care of you. If it’s you, he’ll come around to take care of me and Cady. Whether or not you ever have him. He’s yours.”

Walt just stared at her, like maybe he could order the words into something rational.

She looked away, out the window, tension in the line of her shoulders. “Can’t say as I’m happy about it.” Her voice was quiet. “It isn’t easy. May not be right. But I know what he is to us.”

“It might change things,” Walt finally managed to say. 

She shrugged. “If it does, then I’ve been wrong.”

Walt still had his toothbrush in his hand. Martha--she looked back at him. She could meet his eyes, after saying these extraordinary things. 

“I love you,” she said. “I never could say no to you. To anything you wanted. I’m not about to start now.”

He shook his head at her slowly. 

“I’m not saying you have to,” she said. “But if you want to. Need to. You can.”

 

The words rang and rattled in Walt’s head for days.  _ If you want to. _

He stuttered his way through a dozen calls for idiot things, drunk husbands, drunk drivers, a confrontation over at the Williams farm about a suspiciously absent prize hen. 

He drove out to the Red Pony after his shift was up that weekend. It was a riot of sound and color inside, everybody all dolled up to dance and drink, women perching on bar stools smiling prettily at men puffing out their chests in their best dress shirts. Henry smiled when he saw Walt at the door, and for a second it wasn’t shuttered or guarded at all. Just familiar and sweet, and Walt knew that Martha was right:  _ he’s yours. _

The curtain came down again fast, and the smile was just a friend’s, a little sardonic. But Walt stared back at him, willing him to see something in Walt’s face, maybe, and Henry’s expression shifted. Uncertain. 

Walt came to sit down at the bar. Henry slid him a Rainier without asking. Walt cracked it, tipped it back, drank as much of it at one go as he could.

“Have you had a difficult day?” asked Henry. He was trying to keep it light, Walt could tell. Failing, just barely. Someone other than them wouldn’t have noticed. Probably. 

“Not particularly.” Walt slid his fingers through the cold sweat on the can, didn’t volunteer anything else. Someone at the far end of the bar called for Henry’s attention. 

Walt sat there through the rest of the night, nursing his beer, and then a second, and third, until last call came, and he helped Henry chivvy the stragglers out the door. 

Henry shut the doors and locked them up before he turned back to Walt, folding his arms over his chest. Defensive posture. Henry leaned back against the door, aiming for casual, failing. 

“Are you here to lecture me about my poor choice in locations, or women?” Henry asked, voice a little too crisp and short, an embarrassed, nervous edge to it. He was waiting for Walt to say something, anything. Defuse it. 

Walt shook his head. He let himself look at Henry, really  _ look, _ the way he’d been trying to avoid doing for years. Decades. Sometimes more successfully than others. 

Henry frowned into the silence, straightened up and pushed off the door. He turned to check the locks again, unnecessarily. Nervous habit. A tell. 

“Henry,” said Walt. 

Henry paused, let his arms fall to his sides. He sighed heavily, and then reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose, putting his other hand on his hip, his back still to Walt. 

“It was not well thought out,” said Henry sharply. Directed at himself. “I apologize if I made you uncomfortable. It will not happen again.”

“Henry,” Walt said again, more urgently. “ _ Henry. _ ”

He saw the moment Henry registered his voice, the way Henry’s spine stiffened in shock. Henry sucked in a breath and then turned, chin up, eyes glittering. Henry might be a lot of things, but you could never accuse the man of cowardice. 

“Martha said,” Walt began, and took a deep breath, watching things pass across Henry’s face in quick succession: shock, guilt, fear, anger. “She said, if I need it. If I—want it.”

Henry’s hand shot out, flailing for the back of a chair. He dragged it to him and sat down in it, heavily. 

“You  _ told _ her?” asked Henry, and then answered himself: “Of course you did. Of course you—” and couldn’t finish, shaking his head, small and tight and terrified. 

Walt found himself dropping to his knees next to the chair. “Henry,” he said, voice rough, and the name was different in his mouth than it had ever been, maybe. Like he could taste it. 

Henry looked down at him, plaid shirt pushed up to his elbows. Hair tucked behind his ears. He’d always been handsome. Always been worth looking at, and Walt had tried so hard not to look.

“You cannot be serious,” said Henry, low and fast. 

Walt just raised his eyebrows. 

Henry shook his head again. “This is insane.”

Walt huffed out a laugh. “Never stopped you from anything else.”

“That you know of.”

“I know more than you think.”

They stared at each other in the low amber light of the empty bar. 

Finally, Henry said, very quietly, “I will not start this. If you want it, you will have to start it.”

Walt nodded, taking another deep breath. “Seems fair.”

“What—” Henry sounded strangled. Walt didn’t give him a chance to finish the sentence, just reached up, palmed the back of his head, dragged his mouth down. 

And maybe Henry had planned on saying something, but he gave it up, gave it right up to grab Walt’s shoulders and dig his fingers in, just like he’d dug into Deena’s soft skin. Walt kissed him like he kissed—well, like he kissed Martha; soft and tender, lips barely moving, but Henry didn’t kiss  _ back _ like Martha did. Henry kissed hungry. Henry opened his mouth, bit Walt’s lip, and before Walt was quite sure what to do about it, Henry had pushed himself out of the chair. Kneeling on the floor in front of Walt, both of them on their knees, hauling Walt against him like he was trying to climb into Walt’s skin. 

Henry kissed like he’d been waiting for it. Waiting twenty-three years, maybe. 

Walt had a momentary fragmentary thought,  _ what about Deena, _ but he crushed it down. He had Henry’s attention. He had Henry.  _ He’s yours. _

He pressed a thumb to the top of Henry’s spine. Henry shuddered, all over. Walt wrapped his arms around Henry’s shoulders and pulled; instead of fighting Henry gave, and they went, toppling to the floor, Henry landing on top of Walt at an angle. And now, pressed together body to body, he could feel that Henry was hard against his thigh. Wooden boards against his back; he’d pay for this, they weren’t as young as they’d been once. 

Henry didn’t talk. Just—kissed, and kissed, hands on Walt’s head, neck, shoulders, scrabbling across his chest, like at any minute this was going to be taken away. 

But his hands didn’t dip lower, and finally Walt grabbed him by the belt and hauled him flush, hip to hip, so Henry could feel him, hard, too. He ground up against Henry with a rush of pleasure that winded him. Henry gasped, shocky, head dropping to rest against the crook of Walt’s neck. 

“Please,” Walt managed. “Please.”

Henry—for a minute he thought Henry might ask him,  _ What, Walt? Please what? _ but he didn’t, either because Henry had finally gotten a sense of decency or because Henry was too far gone, too. 

Instead, Henry lifted his head and stared at Walt, piercing eyes boring into his, before nodding once, decisively. 

He drove one leg between Walt’s and pressed firmly. Walt let his head roll back, the noise torn out of him like he’d been punched. He couldn’t stop his hips hitching up, didn’t want to, and Henry started to pant, gasping, thrusting back. 

Walt reached down; Henry froze as Walt got a hand between them, started in on Henry’s belt. 

“Are you,” Henry said, like he was talking around a mouthful of marbles, like his tongue didn’t quite work, “are you  _ sure, _ ” and Walt nodded, not meeting his eyes, working his belt undone backwards and blind. 

He felt the leather come free. Pushed the heel of his hand against the bulge in Henry’s pants, and felt Henry’s gasp against his face as he stared resolutely at Henry’s collarbone. He started to unbutton Henry’s shirt. Got it open enough to mouth at that collarbone, dropped his hands to fumble the fly on Henry’s jeans open. 

“ _ Yes, _ ” Henry gritted out as Walt touched his cock for the first time. It was awkward; his wrist pinched a little as he got it out of Henry’s boxer briefs, and then there was figuring out how to stroke, where he’d never needed to consider logistics before. But he found a rhythm, and Henry was shaking, shaking like a leaf, levering himself up on his elbows to give Walt room. 

Walt raised his head up off the floor blindly, chasing a kiss, and Henry panted into his mouth. “Oh, oh,” Henry whispered, almost a song. 

Walt pumped his hand slow, smooth, like he remembered Henry’s thrusts into Deena. Dragged his grip and made it tight. Henry was huffing through his teeth, pressing his forehead into Walt’s, and his eyes were shut. That wouldn’t—that wouldn’t do. 

“Henry,” Walt murmured. His face was on fire. 

Henry’s eyes opened like a lightning bolt, and Henry stared at him before gasping again and coming into Walt’s hand, sending a shivering wave through the pit of his stomach like the moment when a roller coaster would plunge down. Henry collapsed onto him a split second after, crushing the breath out of his chest. For a crazy minute it felt just like when they were teenagers on the wrestling team. 

Henry rolled to the side after a few moments and ran his hand down Walt’s chest, stopping short of the mess on his pants, hand hovering. He raised his eyebrows at Walt. Walt nodded. 

Henry undid his pants one-handed, biting his lip in concentration, and Walt pushed into his hands as soon as he could, groaning despite himself. Henry handled him with minimal care, just started jacking him slow and messy, got some of the cooling come into his hand to stroke him with, and wasn’t that something, the thought of Henry’s come slick and warming against his skin. He was still almost entirely clothed, wooden slats of the floor unforgiving against his back, and his hips kept jerking up into the air. Henry was watching him intently. It was that that got to him, more than anything else: Henry’s eyes on his face as if he were watching something critically important happening. 

Henry twisted his wrist wickedly and tightened his grip, and Walt came, with something like a shout, head slamming back into the floor.

After a few silent minutes, Henry opened his mouth and drew in breath to say something. Before he could speak, Walt turned his head and kissed him, snaking an arm around his neck to pull him in. Henry stiffened and then relaxed into it. They took a few minutes there—slow, thorough, now that they’d taken the edge off. 

When Henry pulled back again, he said, “You will need to get out of those pants if you intend to drive home. Come on. I have some jeans that will fit you.”

Walt couldn’t stop staring at Henry, at his mouth, pink and wet, lips swollen from kisses, and he realized distantly that he was smiling. “Okay,” he said, and let Henry stand and then haul Walt to his feet with one tacky hand. Walt made a face, scrubbing his hand on his pants leg, and Henry burst out laughing. 

“You never cease to surprise me,” said Henry. “Come on.”

They ended up taking a shower together while Walt’s uniform tumbled in the washing machine, and Henry cautiously ran soapy hands up Walt’s sides, and Walt leaned in for more kisses, slow and firm and less desperate, now. 

Afterwards, Walt put on one of Henry’s spare t-shirts—tight across his chest—and a pair of jeans suspiciously in Walt’s size. Henry just shrugged when Walt raised an eyebrow. 

Walt was in the process of doing up the fly when Henry said, from where he was standing by the desk, “Walt. I need to know something. Is this going to happen again?”

There was a long moment of silence that felt dangerous. Thin ice. 

“Do you want it to?” asked Walt. He could hear his own voice, rough and cracking, heart hammering in his chest. 

Henry rubbed at his face with one hand, somewhere between defeated and joyful. “Yes. I do.”

“Then yes.”

“If it is all right with Martha.” Henry’s mouth was set in a narrow, pained line. It had cost him something to say that. 

Walt said, slowly, “She doesn’t say things she doesn’t mean.”

“I know that. I have  _ met _ her.”

“So she wouldn’t have—said yes, if she didn’t mean it.”

“Still.” Henry looked away, mouth still tight. “If she changes her mind, please let her know that I value our friendship far too much to let this come between us.” There was some ambiguity there, surely, in  _ our _ and  _ us, _ but Walt let it slide. They had to wait out the dryer; Henry held up a mug in a mute question, and Walt nodded, and they tangled their feet under the table while they drank coffee.

When Walt went to leave, he stopped to kiss Henry again, hard. This time there wasn’t the urgent frisson of sex in it, and he could feel Henry shaking under his hands like he had the chills that went with a fever. 

They didn’t say anything. Just traded a long look before Walt left, uniform folded and tucked under his arm. 

 

When Walt got home, Cady long since gone to sleep, Martha was reading in their bed, legs tucked up under the quilt. 

She looked up as he came in and, to his immense relief, smiled; it was a real smile. 

“Oh, honey,” she said. “You look so  _ happy.” _

“You make me happy,” he said immediately. 

“Oh, I know. I know. But I didn’t know I could give you this.” She was beaming, corners of her mouth turned up in excitement. “Oh, I’m so glad. And you came home to me.”

“I always will,” he said, voice going rough. “I promise.”

“Maybe you can—maybe you can bring him home, too,” she said tentatively, “one of these days,” and at that thought he had to stoop and kiss her. 

_ Home,  _ Walt thought.  _ One of these days. _


End file.
